Guilty Trash
by Felidae1
Summary: He could have saved him, all those years ago. Instead, he sent him to the chair.


Happy New Years, everybody, and welcome to my newest contribution to my Darkwing Duck challenge. This is one of the untold stories behind the story, partially based on a statement Darkwing makes in episode _Duck Blind_ , how he, Darkwing, sent Megavolt to the electric chair. Also the episode _Clash Reunion_ shows its influence. However, main inspiration for this ficlet is a brilliant piece of fanfiction named _Beacon,_ written by the highly talented Aurora West. Give it a looksie and all the praise it deserves.

And then come back and do the same with mine, thanks^^

Disclaimer: Copy. Paste. Repeat. All Disney's. Don't sue.

Summary: He could have saved him, all those years ago. Instead, he sent him to the chair.

Ratings: PG 

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 _Guilty Trash_

The house is a maze.  
A building inside a building inside a building.  
Gasping, Darkwing reaches out for the handle of the door ahead of him. With a desperate lurch he takes hold of it, even as the floor beneath him crumbles into nothingness. Still in mid-air, Darkwing grasps the handle tightly with both hands and carefully, deliberately climbs his way into safety. Once back on Terra Firma, he takes a moment to catch his breath, before he continues his travel into the entrails of the house.

He snarls, then wipes the contents of the table onto the floor with one single, angry swoosh. Burying his face in his hands for a moment, he gives in to despair. Then his hands sink down, as determination sparks a faint glimmer in his eyes.  
He doesn't remember.  
Yet.

Darkwing inches closer, suspecting another trap. Searching for a heavy object, he has to settle for a small, shoddy knick-knack shelf collapsing pitifully to his right. Hefting it up with ease, he lets it tumble across the worn-out, deep-blue rug covering the empty hallway he's standing in. The furniture clutters and sends a low rumbling noise through the house, but nothing happens.  
Still, the crimefighter tiptoes and sneaks towards the next door, as if treading over a field full of landmines. Finally in safety, he wipes the sweat from his brow and reaches for the latch of the final door.

He hears thunder, like a faint, distant storm. No, not a storm, lightning, yes, lightning! There it is! For a moment, a split-second, Megavolt's mind experiences complete and utter understanding.  
But even as he graps, clutches, clings to it, the memories slip through his fingers, his neural connections.  
Forcing himself to remain calm, he allows the images to come to him on their own accord.  
They do, one by one, like shy little creatures, they reappear from their hiding spots within his cranial folds. Piece by piece they assemble the shattered mirror his memory has become and as the final stones click into place, a low, evil, thouroughly _sane_ chuckle bubbles form his throat.

Of all the silly booby-traps, he had to fall for the electrified doorknob. Singed, more than a little annoyed and twice as determinded as ever, Darkwing stomps down the stairs leading to the basement.  
The basement, from which a warm, strangely comforting light shines onto the path to his grand stand-off.  
„I will refrain from tapping my fingers together, because that would be just too cliché. Still, permit me this little piece of cornyness: welcome, Darkwing, welcome to your doom."  
Shadowed against the backdrop of the doorframe, the hero , descending the last few steps, he croones,  
"Yes, at least you didn't swivel around in your chair giving me that condescending, evil, know-it-all-grin."  
"Oh, you mean like this?"  
Spinning in his chair until he comes face-to-face with his adversary, the malevolent genius smirks; chin resting on his left hand, left elbow propped up on the copper-laced armrest. Darkwing cringes and shudders in aversion.  
„Oouh, I hate it, when they do that!"  
„Yes, well, you needn't trouble yourself too much about such trivia," states the criminal as he raises and calmly saunters to the table, once again cluttered with random wires, cables, test tubes and a bunsenburner, on top of which a tiny tea kettle balances precariously. Donning a black rubber glove, he continues,  
"After all, you will never see the light of day again -tea?"  
The crimefighter, stunned at the sudden change of tone, nods, before hastily declining the offer. Shrugging, his enemy states,  
"Fine. Your loss", and gingerly sips the steaming golden-brown liquid.  
„Sikkim Orange Pekoe First Flush- ahh, what an aroma! What a delight!" he declares, gently placing cup and saucer back on the table. Glancing over his shoulder he adds;  
"I have Coo-Coo-Cola too, you know?"  
By now, the hero has regained his composure and grits through his teeth,  
„No, thank you. I'm. Fine."  
Nodding, his vis-à-vis continues,  
"Yes well, I'd hate for anyone to think I am anything but a good host -cookies?"  
This time, the vigilante throws a temper tantrum.  
„No tea, no cookies and certainly no Coo-Coo-Cola! This is a final battle! A standoff! Good versus Evil! The honest, hope-inspiring hero defeating the scrupolous, scheming scoundrel! Now put down those cookies so I can hand you over to the police, so they can book you in!"  
„On what charges?"  
Beak wide agape, Darkwing stops mid-motion, uttering,"S'cuse me?"  
A marron brow rises.  
„On what charges?" asks the nemesis. For a moment, Darkwing is flabberghasted, then screeches,  
„On what charges? On WHAT **CHARGES**?!"  
Throwing his fedora hat on the floor, he yells,  
„I'm here to bring him in and he asks me on _what charges_!? Well, here are a few for you, buddy!"  
Counting off his fingers, he yells,  
„Let's see; trespassing, theft, several accounts of felonious assault, stealing private and public property, damage respectively destruction of said, breaking and entering into the St. Canard electricity plant -shall I continue?"  
His opponent yawns, then queries,  
„How exactly did _you_ get in _here_? Because I sure as heck don't recall inviting you in."  
Darkwing frowns.  
„Uh, well, the front door -I mean, it was unlocked..."  
"So that's trespassing, breaking and entering -since most of the doors inside were locked- damage of private property, threat of physical violence..is there any reason why _I_ shouldn't call the police?"  
Throughout his speech Darkwing has grown small and quiet, babbling meekly,  
„Uh, because I'm the hero and you're not..?"  
A derisive snort, then,  
"A great hero, indeed! Running around in a cape and costume as if it were a _schooplay_!"  
He pauses, then saunters over to his modified chair and sits down with an air of pure, unvarnished supremacy and arrogance. Weaving his fingers together, he continues,  
„Besides, I have something better to ensure my freedom."  
Darkwing's eyes narrow, sensing the shift in power.  
„And that would be?"  
This time, the grin is truly sinister.  
„Knowledge, my dear Darkwing. Or should I say... _Drakey_?"  
The crimefighter's blood runs like ice. The grin morphs into a softer, more patronizing smile.  
„You see, my dear, I remember. I regained my memories and thus, myself. I am Elmo Sputterspark."

Darkwing feels a vise grip around his throat, thightening, though there is nothing there.  
Beads, rivulets, rivers of sweat run down his back, even as the fiendish inventor's eyes hold his.  
And then, with a sight not born of sight but instinct, Darkwing reflexively leaps backwards, even as what seems to be a tiny bolt of lightning strikes the floor he has just been standing on.  
Incredulous, he stares at the blackened spot and the feet close to it. That's when he realises that Elmo's shoes are really rubber boots painted to look like bare feet and slippers. Also, the second rubber glove has found its way onto Sputterspark's arm.  
„You wanted your big fight, Drakey, and you got it. Eat hot volts, dorky!"  
He never sees what hits him. All of a sudden, light engulfs darkness eats day devours night and painpainpain and -he is back in his body again, gasping for air, clutching for a hold. Sniggering, Elmo flexes his hands and fingers, the copper coils encircling them glistening against the slick surface, leading to the villain's seat.  
„Not bad, huh? I'm thinking of presenting it at the next inventors' congress. Once the scientific world comes face-to-face with my portable three-phase generator chair, fame and fortune will be mine. Actually, if I play my cards right, they might even make me..inventor of the year!"  
Throughout his speech, Elmo keeps firing bolt after bolt upon Darkwing, chasing the vigilante about like the proverbial rabbit.  
Exhaustion, scorch and burn marks, lack of oxygen..he is running out of time, fast, and try as he might, he can't come up with a plan-  
Darkwing is flattened against the rear wall like a bug, when the next charge hits him. For a moment, he remains mid-air, then crashes down between the stacked-up crates and boxes with devastating force.  
Elmo breathes a deep sigh of relief.  
„Once I have gotten you out of the way, I can set aside this stupid - _Megavolt_ persona," he makes a face as if having tasted something foul,  
„and return to a normal, respectable life. Of course, since the only way to do so is to fake my own demise and simultaneously get rid of all the people knowing my secret -namely you- I am afraid, you will have to die a hero's death."  
He deflects the approaching bottle of Coo-Coo-Cola as one would a fly. Crossing his arms before his chest, he sneers,  
„That's a six-pack, Drake. You got five more tries."  
The next bottle misses him by miles, smashing harmlessly against the stairs leading up.  
„Four. You're wasting your ammunition, you know?"  
Elmo's voice is that of a teacher lecturing his pupil. Darkwing is short on bottles and ideas.  
He can't end like this, not now, not here. Is there no other possibility..? Risking a glance, he lets his gaze travel through the cellar; his nemesis, chair, table-  
The bunsenburner! It's still running, though on a low flame. Drake, not Darkwing, as for once it is the hero who needs saving, begins to fling random objects at his adversary, hastily searching through the various pockets and pouches of his costume. Finally, he finds the small flask of antiseptic.  
Alcohol-based antiseptic.  
Another box of what-so-evers is airborne, distracting the villain and allowing Drake to finish his tiny contraption.  
In rapid succession, a can of beans and a soda bottle home in on Elmo; the bottle smashing to shards on the stone floor, sending its contents flying everywhere, the can clattering across he table, pushing over and aside items and overturning the bunsenburner.  
„Nice try, Darkwing, but in case you failed to notice, rubber does not conduct electricity. Just a friendly reminder."  
This time Elmo plucks the bottle out of the air with the practiced ease of a pro-catcher.  
And realizes his mistake just before the absurdly tiny Molotow-cocktail blows up and, with the help of the bunsenburner, creates chaos and flames on the overladen desk.  
It's nothing too dangerous, too grievous, but even as Elmo Sputterspark reaches out, he hears,  
„Suck cola, evildoer!" as the two final soda bottles soak him and his high-powered contraption. 

It could have gone better.  
It could have gone worse.  
Seven months.  
Seven months, that's how long it has taken Elmo to recover from both the burns and the massive, nigh on fatal electric charge. Somehow, Darkwing had managed to get the both of them out of the mayhem, ensuring Elmo's survival.  
But there is no Elmo Sputterspark left.  
Only Megavolt.  
And today he stands trial for all his transgressions.

„Has the jury come to a decision?"  
„Yes, your honour."  
„Then declare the adjudication."  
„We-hrm-we, the people of St. Canard, find the accused known as Megavolt guilty of all charges."  
„Thank you."  
The judge nods grimly and demands,  
„Rise for the verdict!"

As Darkwing stands among the other witnesses, he can't help the pang of guilt and, strangely, loss strike his heart.  
Yes, it _is_ for the greater good, yes, life _hasn't_ been fair to Elmo Sputterspark and yes, perhaps he, Darkwing, will be partially to blame for the death of one of St. Canard's great geniuses, but..but.. he _remembers_.  
Not Elmo, but Megavolt remembers.  
Remembers who he used to be, no, but somewhere deep inside that caleidoscope of memories lies hidden the key to Darkwing's secret.  
In order for Drake Mallard to be safe, Megavolt has to die.  
And if Elmo Sputterspark has to be sacrificed for Darkwing Duck to live...

He will have to live knowing that in that one moment, the hero had been too weak and human to save a dead man walking. 

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_There we go. A somewhat dark, if not sad explanation for Megavolt's continued memory and personality loss. It always intrigued me how casual and cavalier the series treated poor Elmo's mental condition. From where I'm standing, I think Megavolt is the most pitiful out of the Fearsome Five(Negaduck not included); whereas the others led normal, successful lives up until tragedy -or their own hybris- struck, his ended before graduation. And not by his own choice or making, but the cruel hands of two bratty teenagers who never had to atone for their crime._

 _Well, so far for number seven, just nineteen more to go...please r &r and remember to read Aurora West's uncanny ficlet as well. Thanks and until my next story_

 _F_ _elidae_

 _s/9131379/1/Beacon_


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